


City of Omens

by executrix



Category: Angel The Series, Good Omens
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-04
Updated: 2011-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Apocalyptic Prophecy. Will Aziraphale and Crowley reach Los Angeles in time to prevent it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Omens

_The Them nodded sagely. Of this at least they had no doubt. America was, to them, the place that good people went to when they died. They were prepared to believe that just about anything could happen in America_.

1  
“Here,” Aziraphale said. “It just came in today. I bought it on abebooks.”

“La la, da da, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” Crowley said. “Father kills son. Vampire lives until he dies. Serve a paper and Shansu me. I don’t see why you’re letting it spoil your appreciation of this very passable Barsac. You didn’t get that on abebooks.”

“Well, you see, it’s the Apocalypse I’m worried about,” Aziraphale said, gloomily swirling the wine around in his glass. He put down the glass and poked absently at the half-eaten slice of Black forest gateau on his plate.

“Been there, done that, it didn’t happen,” Crowley said.

“But that was in England, wasn’t it?”

“We’re still in England.”

“What I mean is…”

“That ever since they lost their Empire, you wouldn’t expect the Brits to make much of a show when it comes to the world ending. Well, fair do’s. Amateur Night at the Apollo-clypse. Where’s this one when it’s at home?”

“California.”

“Oh, well, then, they’d do you proud.”

“But I…we don’t want the world ending. Even less so than the last time. We’re more…attached to it than we used to be.”

And from somewhere, Crowley could hear a sardonic voice saying, “Happy meals on legs.” “I know,” he said.

2  
Aziraphale traveled in Coach. It was a distressing experience. The movie was awful and the food was worse. A small child in the row behind him kicked his seat the whole way. Babies cried.

Crowley, on the other hand, transmuted himself and Dog IV into a Louis Vuitton train case, on the theory that First Class baggage would be treated with a lot more respect than Steerage passengers, and if you were a piece of luggage you wouldn’t think the flight was boring.

Aziraphale was glad that they hadn’t lost Crowley. He lifted him--them--off the conveyor belt. The other passengers blinked as they saw the suitcase transmogrify into a man and a dog. But, even before they were induced to forget what they saw, they decided that it probably didn’t matter, because neither of them appeared to be made out of metal.

Crowley tightened the belt on his Turnbull & Asser trenchcoat and gazed up at the signs. “LAX!” he said happily. “One of ours!”

He swiveled his head around until he located a counter where he could lease a Bentley.

“It’s rather an extravagance…” Aziraphale fussed.

“Think of what we’ll be saving on the petrol,” Crowley said.

Once in the car, Aziraphale said, “You don’t really have much of a plan, as such, do you? I mean, where are we going to find a vampire with a soul in a place this size?”

Crowley jammed down on the accelerator, figuring that that was always a good plan when you couldn’t have your hands on the wheel, and drew out his Personal Demonic Assistant and flipped to the Black Book feature. “Local knowledge,” he said.

3

“I don’t think…isn’t this…well, a rather dodgy neighborhood to leave that motor parked on the street? We don’t even own it…” Aziraphale said.

“Go ahead! Make my day!” Crowley told the extremely dodgy Youth Conspiracy Scheme that hovered nearby.

Dog IV cheerfully said something in Hellhound to them.

One of youths snatched off the nearest leather jacket he wasn’t actually wearing and began to polish the Bentley’s side flank.

“It’s all right,” Crowley said, patting Aziraphale’s arm. “You’re with me.”

Once inside, he flipped his sunglasses up until they sat on top of his head. In a demon bar, serpentine yellow eyes were, if anything, an asset. He began to scan the talent. “Your round, isn’t it, Zee?”

“Anthony!” Aziraphale said repressively. “We’re here to work! We need information!” He knew it wouldn’t do any good. Put Crowley somewhere where there was no need to dissemble, and he’d be on the pull to a degree last seen when those chaps erected Stonehenge on a fixed-price contract. And, after all, why not? Crowley’s lot didn’t exactly put a premium on chastity.

For Dog IV, Aziraphale ordered a Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall served in a saucer, with a dog biscuit floating on it in lieu of a swizzle stick.

Aziraphale had a Virgin Mary [Footnote: Duh.] and a plate of nachos. He was contemplating the centrality of Nachismo to Latino culture. He easily grasped the value of being hot, spicy and tasty but he wondered why frangibility wasn’t considered something of a disadvantage. Not to mention cheesiness.

Snapping out of his reverie, he discovered that Crowley was leading the customers in a rousing rendition of “Tomorrow Belongs to Me.” [Footnote: Naturally the Host maintained a full line of original cast albums and soundtracks, and was careful never to leave karaoke disks in a car, so none of them was The Best of Queen. Unless it started out that way.] That annoyed him, not least because Crowley had jumped the queue. (Aziraphale was eighth on the sign-up sheet. He had chosen “E Lucevan Le Stelle.” )

Aziraphale stood up and sternly told the karaoke machine, “Play La Marseillaise.”

The owner of the establishment hesitated, then tugged at one lapel of his impeccable tuxedo and gave an imperceptible nod.

4

“My,” Lorne said, ruffling a tuft of fur that would be between Dog IV’s eyebrows. “If it isn’t the shih tzu that hit the fin du siecle.”

“A spaniel, actually…” Aziraphale said. “Half cocker spaniel and half springer…”

“Probably not the only Cock-Ring in here. You boys are new in town, aren’t you? I bet I haven’t seen you renting my real estate before.”

“I’m the evil of the two lessors,” Crowley said unnecessarily.

Lorne reached into Crowley’s Old Fashioned, plucked out one of the maraschino cherries, languorously drew it into his mouth, and pursed his lips, showing that the stem was now tied in a knot.

Crowley, with a flick of his tongue, extracted the onion from a Gibson. Two tables away. “Oh, I say!” said the owner of the drink, who now didn’t want it any more.

5

Many people, meeting Wesley Wyndam-Pryce for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was pretentious, and that he was at least as bisexual as a troop of bonobos in possession of more grooming preparations than a Mary Kay convention.

That night, he wore deck shoes; cashmere socks; a pair of Calvin Klein khakis with a line of white along the seams and creases where they were over-starched; and a Mr. Pink shirt. He also wore a Ralph Lauren lamb’s wool crewneck in Celery. This was a recent and spontaneous purchase. He had followed a Threlnogk demon up through a sewer , into a basement, and ended up in the Ralph Lauren store in an outlet mall. The Threlnogk got away, and he was so embarrassed by the pong that he bought the sweater to make up for it. Just visible above the sweater’s high neck was the knot of an expensive and ugly tie that had been a present from Angel.

None of the other patrons was wearing a tie (even if you discount those who did not, in common parlance, have a neck). Wesley thought of it as an ice-breaker [Footnote: Persons—using that term broadly—who saw it often wanted to crack his ice.] and had noticed that, even when he was strictly humanerastic, more often than mere chance would predict [Footnote: I.e., more often than you’ve had hot dinners, or Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell (Ret.) had cans of lukewarm condensed milk.] he had ended the evening with his wrists tied to the headboard. It was only sensible, then, to bring along something that could be expected to un-knot reliably. Wesley always prepared for an evening out, checking to see that he had cab fare, condoms, protective amulets, and wintergreen Altoids.

At some point after going Rogue, Wesley discovered that to a certain extent he was hunting demons. Which was all very well and good. That was the Program he was supposed to Get With. But it was also true, as he was forced to admit, that a more accurate formulation would be that he was chasing them. He liked a little monster in his men (and his women, for that matter). But in the circles he traveled in, who didn’t?

He truly admired Angel for his courageous effort at rehabilitation, and he could stand up in the glare of the brightest spotlight and admit that. What he could never admit except in dreams or with more alcohol aboard than was sensible at all, was that in their earlier encounter he rather liked Angelus’ style, and not just when it came to leather pants.

It was a terrible thing that Angelus had tortured Rupert Giles, but…well, Giles had seen Wesley at his worst. At least 99% of Wesley would have risked his life and perhaps even given it willingly, to spare his fellow-watcher. The other less-than-one-percent would have bought tickets for a ringside seat.

6

“Angel Investigations!” said a pretty dark-haired girl in a khaki miniskirt and short-sleeved navy turtleneck. “We help the hopeless!”

“We’d like to help you, actually,” Aziraphale said.

Dog IV leaped up onto the desk. Cordy picked him up and snuggled him. He growled. “What kind is he?”

“Hellhound,” Crowley said, anticipating her terror with enjoyment.

“That’s all right,” she said. “We’re business casual all week. Who’s a little cutie, then?”

Wesley, returning from the Starbuck’s run, nearly dropped the bag when he saw Crowley. Private eyes had a long and ignoble history in providing ammunition for blackmail; he didn’t think that they were often blackmailed themselves. He determined to put a brave face on it. The Council had already sacked him, so there wasn’t much it could do if furnished, say, with pictures showing Wes being apported across the room, ping-ponging from hanging upside down, suspended on an icy forked phallus in one corner, to proffering a horn job over by the picture molding.

You didn’t get a lot of that in Cheltenham Spa.

“My, you look right at home, Jason,” Crowley said. “You told Lorne you were a golf course architect from Delray Beach, Florida in town for four days…”

“Undercover,” Wesley said repressively.

“My—point—being,” Aziraphale said, crescendo, “That we have reason to believe that Angel is a vampire with a soul.”

“Yes, he is,” Cordelia said. “How did you know?”

“Well, you see, there’s a demon karaoke bar downtown…” Aziraphale began.

Wesley turned his scarlet face toward the wall.

“Caritas!” Cordy said. “Is it good? We’ve got to go check it out sometime!”

“Let me know when,” Wesley muttered. “I’m sure I’ll have some Middle Gothic calligraphy to practice that night…floss the mogwai…”

“And we’re in possession of a copy of a prophecy that we believe involves him.”

“Oh, that!” Wesley said, essaying a light-hearted laugh. “We know all about that, we have the situation in hand, perfectly under control…” He tried to transmit the internationally recognized signal for “Naff off out of here before you embarrass me so much that I have to disembowel myself with a paper clip,” but was unsuccessful.

 

 

7

“Oh, it’s not real sunlight, of course,” Aziraphale said, handing Angel a purple Speedo and turning his back. “It just looks and feels like it…”

“You won’t tell Cordy, will you?” Angel asked. “I am so staked if she finds out about this…And she better not see me with a tan line.”

Aziraphale was shocked. His intentions had been of the most innocent—a trivial but enjoyable little treat for the handsome vampire who, after a somewhat delayed start, was now endeavoring to atone. One of Aziraphale’s credos was that it is never too late to mend, especially if you’re immortal. Angel, however, obviously had misconstrued the smaller angel’s plan…no, wait…I Don’t Know is on third….

Angels are sexless, [Footnote: Lower-case angels, although Upper-Case Angel, as he’d be the first to remind you, is no eunuch. Unlike Honky-Tonk, God did make lower-case angels.] unless they want to make an effort. In this case, Aziraphale decided, somewhere around smoothing the SPF 666 over the spot near the tattoo that Angel couldn’t reach, it certainly valait le voyage.

Aziraphale noticed that the door to the room he had just filled with sand and orchestrated with the sound of lapping waves and hooting seagulls didn’t have a lock. Well, good, Aziraphale thought; that element of anxiety should be enough to keep him from perfect happiness…

8

“Do you think we helped?” Aziraphale asked. He had certainly tried to have a full and frank exchange of ideas with Angel, but he wasn’t sure if the big sloppy grin on the vampire’s face showed that he was capable of considering the Four Last Things.

“I certainly had fun,” Crowley said smugly. He wriggled his shoulders and yawned luxuriously.

“That was hardly the question. Do you think, now that we’ve warned him, he’ll be on his guard against Darla?”

“Probably not, considering that she turned into a pile of dust and for some unfathomable reason he considers that condition to be permanent. Really, my dear, you should know that we will take some trouble when a Beast of Unusual Roughness slouches off to be born.”

“But…that’s atrocious! The offspring of two vampires—a malign miracle of that degree—that could shake the entire axis of the Universe! And then where’ll we be? Our copybooks are pretty much solid blot by now, and my lot wouldn’t have you and I wouldn’t have your lot.”

“Don’t be such an old fuss-pot,” Crowley said. “Hey, if you’re going to go on about genetics, you might as well say the kid will grow up to be an angel. Saying he’ll grow up to be a demon just because his dad became one is like saying a mouse with its tail cut off will give birth to tailless mice. No, upbringing is everything. Take it from me. ”

“I hope you’re right,” Aziraphale said, hopping onto the conveyor belt and, having learned his lesson, transmuting himself into a 26” Samsonite pullman. Then they got back home and other matters absorbed their attention.

9

Several years later, they were Very Surprised.


End file.
